by K L Conger
When they faced him, Taras waved his hand until Inga glanced up. She smiled at him, and he waved to show he didn’t need her to stop. Then he left her to her work.
Yehvah had improved a great deal since then. She’d even begun taking some of her old duties back.
Nikolai visited her often.
He visited her every day, no matter how late the hour. He often brought her small gifts. Simple tokens—a wildflower, a strangely shaped rock, a shiny piece of metal, sometimes a small luxury he’d found somewhere in the camp. Once he brought her a tiny sparrow with a broken wing. He set it gently into her hands, and she smiled at him in a way that made Taras feel like an intruder.
Taras noticed the way Nikolai worried, fussed, and felt over her. Taras understood. How could he not?
The siege became more difficult with each passing week. The soldiers were exhausted. Many were lost. Food became scarce. Supplies continued coming from Moscow through the outpost town of Sviazhsk, but they didn't come nearly fast enough to keep anyone’s stomach satisfied. The Russians had little to show for all their banging on Kazan’s walls.
Then, a month before, the wind began to change. Secretly, the Russian army constructed a siege engine a mile south of Kazan. A gargantuan wooden tower, it reached forty-two feet into the air—far higher than Kazan’s walls. On its top platforms sat ten heavy guns and fifty light cannons. Russia’s best gunners manned them. When completed, Taras and Nikolai joined several hundred soldiers in pushing it silently up to the gates of Kazan. They finished the task in the dead of a murky night, when the moon hid its face and could not expose the operation.
When the Tatars awoke the next morning, a colossal wooden demon peering over their impregnable gates and into the city greeted them. Sunrise brought the echoing boom of the cannon. More damage was done in one day than in the previous two months.
A few days later, the city’s water source and the secret channel through which it flowed were discovered. The engineer had been correct. It wasn’t far from the captured bathhouse—mere yards, in fact. They placed gunpowder strategically and, in the presence of the tsar, ignited. The explosion knocked down a wall of the bathhouse and filled the passage with huge chunks of rock and dirt, damming up the water long before it reached the walls.
Ever since, the rumors of the tsar’s new plan had spread through the camp like wild fire. Now, as he watched from his place near the wall of the tsar’s tent, Taras couldn’t help feeling a little excited.
“Please explain the situation,” Ivan said to Mstislavsky. “We want to be sure everyone is clear, not only on what is happening, but why we are certain it will work.”
Mstislavsky cleared his throat. “Since we choked off their water, the Tatars inside the walls have been forced to drink the fetid water they have within, and even that is running low. The snow has been light so far. More will come soon and they will use that to their advantage, so we must move quickly. We have recently learned that drinking the water has made many of them sick. Those who aren’t sick are afraid to drink any more of it. So, we have those who are sick and those who aren’t getting any water.
“Furthermore, their foodstuffs are dwindling as quickly as ours. Our spies tell us they are rationing food inside the walls. Of course, Prince Gorbaty-Shuisky recently made off with a great many of their supplies.”
The men around Taras nodded or chuckled appreciatively. A Tatar named Prince Yepancha led the army hiding in the forest of Arsk. After too many attacks and too many men lost, the tsar assigned Prince Goraty-Shuisky to put an end to it. Intelligence reported that several miles into the forest sat a fortress, from whence these attacks commenced. Gorbaty-Shuisky must find it, destroy it, and obliterate the army hiding there. The prince went into the forest as relaxed as if merely out for a morning ride.
He’d been gone nearly a week. Perhaps this would not have been such a problem, except that it took only a few days to destroy both fortress and army. Stragglers who returned reported that the prince and his men ravaged the countryside, going all the way to Arsk and other outlying towns, pillaging and gathering booty. The stories bothered Taras. He'd seen the sneering, scabbed face of war before. It never looked pleasant, but these stories told of heartless brutality and blatant bloodshed for its own sake and no other.
The stories and Gorbaty-Shuisky’s long absence bothered the tsar as well, but for different reasons. Ivan fretted and worried, always assuming the worst. He was troubled that the prince, one of his most loyal generals, seemed to be taking a long holiday.
Taras got the impression that other soldiers in the army were angry about the entire situation, not because of the brutality, or because Gorbaty-Shuisky’s loyalty was in question, but because those soldiers collected valuable plunder while they were stuck guarding the gates of Kazan.
Finally, Gorbaty-Shuisky returned. He brought with him hundreds of prisoners and, more importantly, massive herds of livestock and mounds of provisions much needed by the Russian army. The tsar showered him in kisses and praise, promising him rewards in heaven for his loyalty.
The Russian army ate better in the last week than it had in the last month.
“They are beginning to talk of surrender,” Mstislavsky continued. “The time is ripe. Razmysl tells us his sappers are nearly ready.”
“Ready for what?” Prince Kurbsky spoke from the corner.
“Razmysl has been directing an operation to dig under the city.” The officers murmured amongst themselves in annoyance, not surprise. This was common knowledge.
Mstislavsky held up his hands for quiet. “They have been digging to get under two of the city’s towers.” This silenced the men and got their attention. Taras leaned forward, wondering what the plan could be. “They have succeeded. As we speak they are placing barrels of gun powder under the tower at the southwest corner,” he pointed on the map, “and this one along the east wall. We are using enough powder to level each tower. This will kill many Tatars and will leave gaping holes in their wall. We can simply walk in, and take the city.”
The commander paused, letting the information seep in. The siege could be over in a matter of days.
A vague fear rose in the pit of his stomach. He thought of the savage exploits of Gorbaty-Shuisky’s army. Surely that wouldn’t happen here. If the Tatars were as desperate as Mstislavsky said, they wouldn’t put up much of a fight. There would be no need for brutal tactics. With the exception of those who died in the explosion, perhaps the city would surrender with little or no bloodshed.
“How close are the diggers to the Tatars? Are they far underground?” Nikolai asked the question, and Taras craned his neck around, but couldn’t see him. Too many bodies blocked his view.
“Not far at all. They could hear the Tatars walking and talking directly above them. They had to move silently, or risk exposing the entire operation. Which is why,” he turned and spoke to the tsar, “they moved so slowly.” Ivan took on a look of annoyance, obviously not pleased with the delay.
“How long will it be,” another man asked, “until the sappers are ready to blow the towers?”
“Two or three days.”
The man sighed loudly. “Very well.”
“Something wrong, General?” Mstislavsky asked.
“No, my lord. I understand. It takes as long as it takes. It’s only that, you are right. The Tatars are becoming more desperate. Their desperation is turning into animal rage. We lose more men every day.”
“Of course we do,” the commander’s voice remained calm and steady. “It’s the only hope they have—to try and kill enough of us to make us retreat. Without water—”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” the tsar interrupted. “Human losses are immaterial. Any soldier who dies for Russia enters heaven’s gates the instant he hits the ground. Has God not promised that we will defeat Kazan? The losses of your men are to be celebrated, not mourned. Anything else is an expression of doubt in God himself, and such doubts will lose us this war. Understand, General?”
“Of course, my Lord Tsar. Forgive me.” The man bowed his head, sufficiently chastised.
Taras didn't agree with the tsar’s line of reasoning. Artem had been young and full of hope, with his entire life ahead of him. Taras didn't know him well, but still mourned his loss, as he mourned every man who died under his command.
“Any other questions or concerns?” Mstislavsky asked quietly after an awkward silence stretched. “Good. Then listen well. This is where you’ll each be placed and how we will proceed once inside.”
TWO DAYS LATER, THE army was ready. The day before, Saturday, the Feast Day of the Intercession of the Virgin Mary, Razmysl proclaimed that everything was in place. Final preparations were made all day. The siege engine administered an especially harsh bombardment—nonstop cannons from sunup to sundown. The moat around the city had been filled with dirt, debris, and tree trunks where possible, so the soldiers could cross easily once the walls were breached. Ivan addressed the troops, focusing on suffering as a gateway to victory.
“As for myself, dear brothers and friends,” he intoned, decked out in his most royal colors, armor gleaming in the sunlight, “I too am prepared to suffer unto death for the sake of the Holy Churches, the Orthodox Faith, the Christian blood, and my own patrimony.”
He wept unabashedly, and the army shouted they were ready to suffer with their rightful tsar.
That evening, Taras went to see Inga. The next day’s battle would be a decisive one. With the army rushing the gates and pouring into the city, it would be more dangerous that it had been yet. Except for the day of the ambush on the plain of Arsk, Taras had not been much in the thick of battle. He was an officer, not an infantryman. Tomorrow he would see the front lines of the conflict for the second time. The chance of death was a fair one.
Inga could not come out and see him, so he left a message that he would be at his tent until morning. He knew he might not see her before he left. He resolved to try again in the morning before he went to battle.
The past two months had been difficult for them. Taras frequently stayed at the front for days. Inga did all of Yehvah’s work in addition to her own; the work of three people around the clock. She rested little and slept less. On the rare occasion when Taras did get to sleep in his tent, and Inga came to him for a few hours, they were too exhausted to do anything more than wrap their arms around each other and pass out.
When Taras ducked into his tent, he found the temperature inside not much higher than that outside. He started a fire to ward off the chill. Mstislavsky said winter was coming. Taras would argue that it had already arrived. They had seen no snow since the night the wolf attacked Yehvah, but that didn’t mean winter wasn’t upon them.
Taras felt exhausted, but didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to spend the night in prayer, especially if Inga didn't come. Hours later found him kneeling in front of a small trunk at the side of the tent. The wolf-skin he'd acquired in Siberia draped the top of it. On top sat several icons. They were different than the statues of saints he prayed to in England, but they would do. Several feet above his altar, pinned to the tent, hung a cross.
Taras prayed for a long time. He prayed for God’s mercy and protection. He prayed that, no matter what happened to him, God would watch over his love. He prayed for the souls of his parents, and asked for their protection; that if he died on the battlefield, they would come and take him home with them.
Taras grew up Catholic, so his prayers sounded different from the prayers of the men in other tents, mere feet away. They all worshipped the same god, though. Not only a higher being, but the same Christ. Taras prayed for their mutual protection and unity to accomplish their task.
It was a slight change in the air, like sensing a soft breeze from a mile away that made Taras’s head come up. He turned around to see Inga in the doorway. An oversized, threadbare cloak covered her. As she came in, she let the cowl fall back, untied the string at her neck, and let it slip off her shoulders. She laid it elegantly down on a trunk as she passed it, then turned to look at him with frightened eyes.
They crossed the room to each other, meeting in the middle.
“The attack is tomorrow,” he began.
“I know.” For some reason, they didn’t touch each other. “Are you afraid?”
Taras searched her face, considering. He ought to say something that sounded confident, that would reassure her, but he wanted to be honest with her, no matter the outcome. He twisted at the waist to look back at the icons and the cross, then back at her.
“Yes.” It came out a whisper. He studied the ground, then, wondering what a man should do on a night like this night. He'd been praying, but she was here now. What could he say to her that would be anywhere near adequate?
His own thoughts absorbed him so fully that he failed to notice her painful swallow, or the tears that leaked down her cheeks until she took his face in her hands.
“Promise you’ll live.”
He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder and knowing he could promise no such thing. She huddled against his chest. When Inga raised her head, he kissed her deeply. His praying was done for the night. Now, he wanted to be with her.
WHEN MORNING CAME, neither of them had slept. A groom brought Jasper to Taras’s tent and Inga saw him off. He took her face in his hands and stared at her for a long time. Emotion passed wordlessly between them, and he forced a smile.
She smiled back before taking one of his hands and placing it over her heart.
He understood, of course, and smiled again, blinking back tears. Leaning in, he kissed her between the eyes, on the mouth, then on the heart. He went down on one knee and kissed her hand.
His father used to do this to his mother when Taras was a boy. One of his oldest, fondest memories. He took both her hands and kissed them several times, holding them to his forehead and closing his eyes.
Finally, he stood. Inga cried softly. He didn’t dare embrace her again. He wouldn’t be able to leave if he did. Backing away, he mounted his horse and trotted off. He didn’t see her fall to her knees on the frozen ground behind him.
HOURS LATER, TARAS sat his horse in formation with his men, part of the army stationed in front of the eastern wall. Jasper stood directly in front of the tower that would be demolished in a few minutes, but far enough back that the explosion shouldn’t touch him.
Now it was a game of waiting.
Chapter 37
IVAN WOKE LONG BEFORE dawn, buckled his too-big armor over his lean frame, and went into one of the church tents. The attack would begin soon, and his army needed all the help they could get. He spent the morning in prayer, especially to St. Sergius, who'd been spotted within the walls.
Men who escaped Kazan reported seeing a man inside Kazan sweeping the streets. The way they described him made him St. Sergius, one of Ivan’s favorite and personal saints. When the men approached Sergius and asked him why he swept the streets, he replied he would soon have many guests. Was this not proof the Russians would take the city? That God and his saints prepared the way for them?
Ivan didn’t know how long he’d been praying. His knees and ankles began to hurt, then went numb. He ignored the pain in favor of fervent prayer. He continually crossed himself, touched his forehead to the ground in front of the altar, and cried out prayers of acquiescence and pleas for guidance and mercy. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he begged God not to allow his past sins to influence the battle today. Sylvester’s words rang in his ears. He would not forgive himself if his people were lost due to his youthful merry-making.
The priest came to perform the morning service. Ivan listened patiently, trying to feel each word of the service in his heart and mind, knowing his devotion could change the course of history today.
“And there shall be one fold,” the priest was saying, “and one shepherd—”
The earth shook so violently, the icons and candles around the tent shuddered. Only then did Ivan’s ears register the boom�
��like being outside with thunder all around you. He ran to the door of the tent and threw back the flap.
A cloud of black smoke rose from the city. The first tower had been blown. Seconds later, another boom—like a thousand cannons all firing at once—and this time the icons tumbled.
Ivan hurried back to his place, falling onto his knees once more. “Priest, quickly, finish the service.”
“Well, I—” the priest hurried around the tent, righting icons and candles.
“One fold and one shepherd.”
“Of course, my lord. And there shall be one fold . . .”
A soldier entered. “My lord, the time has come for you to leave the tent. There is fierce fighting in the city and the soldiers are expecting you.”
“Finish the service. Christ Jesus will show us greater mercy and our prayers be swords against our enemies.”
The soldier did not complain. The service ended, and Ivan felt a desperation unlike any he’d ever known. The entire weight of a war, the lives embodied in his army, the history, honor, and freedom of his people pressed against his chest.
“Do not forsake me, O God. Do not abandon me,” he cried. “Help me.” He rose and went to the icon of St. Sergius, kissing it and letting his tears drip onto it. “Guard me with thy prayers,” he whispered. He took the holy sacraments, pressing the tokens reverently to his lips.
Then he followed the waiting soldier out of the church and onto the battlefield.
EVEN FROM THREE QUARTERS of the way back, Taras was nearly unhorsed by the explosion. Jasper, along with all the other horses on the plain, reared and whinnied, wide-eyed with fear, and it was all Taras could do to get him under control again.
